


Half-Said but Wholly Intended

by tartpants



Category: True Detective
Genre: (depending on your interpretation of that), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Character Study, Deepthroating, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Kinda, Lots of dialogue, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostate Massage, Rust is an extreme switch, Second Time, Self Harm, Shame, Submission, some misogyny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 08:11:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13185975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tartpants/pseuds/tartpants
Summary: One of the only damn reasons Marty tangled with men at all was their understanding of a few tacit rules, the first being that it was just getting off, just physical release and nothing more. The second being that it was never to be spoken of. Hell, it was rarely even asked for directly, the less said the better. Primal signals worked best: sitting a little too close in the sauna at the rec center, having a few too many whiskeys at the bar together. Men were uncomplicated and predictable, and Marty should’ve just stuck to blowjobs on dusty Parish roads instead of chasing a piece of tail like Lisa.Figures Rust’d be like a woman, wanting to talk about what happened.





	Half-Said but Wholly Intended

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically just me dipping my toe into the fandom and the characters. Not much in the way of plot but some attempt at character study. Tagging "dubious consent" even though I'm not sure it qualifies. Best to be safe, though it might be better described as "self harm through consensual sexual assault?" Yeah, idk either.

_ “I want to be with those who know secret things or else alone.”  _

Rainer Marie Rilke

 

Marty is halfway through his third Lone Star when Rust, without warning (always without warning), shifts out of his cold, unreadable silence and transforms into the lawn-chair philosopher. ‘Lawn-chair philosopher’ is one of Marty's better insults, no doubt, but the fact it'd been inspired by Rust kept him from fully admitting it.

 

"Marty, you ever heard of the 'repressive hypothesis?'"

 

He doesn't have a clue what those words mean, but he's relieved just the same. Better than being asked if he believes in ghosts or God or existentialism. This, at least, sounds like some scientific bullshit, a more tolerable variety compared to Rust's usual brand of the stuff.  

 

"Can't say I have." Because he's almost three beers in, Marty's tone is more welcoming than it'd typically be. In the week since they closed the case it's become a nightly routine, passing time in Rust's dim, sparse living room, the walls crawling with shadows. Sometimes they talk about work, sometimes they talk about Maggie and the girls. Mostly, they sit in silence, drinking. Marty drinks, at least, and lately Rust's been joining in. Joining in like a normal person. Marty wants to be glad or at least smug, but Rust drinks the same way he smokes, like a man grimly intent on dying of lung cancer or just flat out catching fire. Either way Marty doesn't remark on it and so they drink. 

 

Once, they fucked. 

 

"Foucault argued against it in his _ History of Sexuality _ . The hypothesis posits that western humanity spent the last three centuries frowning upon purely pleasurable activities, sex topping that long list." Rust finishes with a long suck off his cigarette, lips tightly pursed in a manner that catches Marty’s eye, much as he wishes it didn’t. 

 

He feels the muscles in his face twitch, struggling to settle on an appropriate reaction. He can only guess that this is leading up to Maggie or Lisa or, shit, maybe even how he ended up balls deep in Rust two nights ago. No matter how he squints, none of it seems a good topic for conversation. He's still way too sober for that. 

 

“Frowning on pleasure? Sounds like company you’d keep,” he growls, draining his beer and reaching for a forth. 

 

As usual, Rust doesn’t acknowledge the barb, a feat that Marty both envies and is suspicious of. Rust stubs out his cigarette and immediately lights another, taking a long drag before continuing with the evening sermon. “I paraphrase, but Foucault didn’t see us as repressed so much as searching for the truth about sexualiy, studying it like a science, making it the focus of discussion in a whole variety of arenas.” His eyes flick to meet Marty’s. “That would include criminal justice.”

 

Marty relaxes into his lawn chair. This is about the work, then. Good. “Can we skip to the conclusion, Rust? Go for the Cliff’s Notes version?”

 

Whenever Rust shrugs, all of the muscles in his shoulders bunch up tight, as if the gesture takes massive effort on his part. “There is no conclusion, but sometimes I think Foucault was both wrong and right. Yes, humanity pursued the truth about sex --” He pauses to look off into some abstract distance “-- but that didn't mean we weren't repressing. If anything, science became the apparatus of repression."

 

"What the holy hell are you on about?" 

 

“It’s a way to erase the shame of it, Marty.” Another drag, and the room fills with bluish haze. “Give something a scientific term and you validate it. Normalize it, or try to. But it never quite works out that way.”

 

Marty tips his gaze heavenward. “Rust, would you just have another beer already?”

 

“The other way we erase shame is to refuse discourse entirely.”

 

Shifting in his chair, Marty presses his lips together tightly and sighs through his nose. He doesn’t like how sharp Rust’s eyes are. Nothing good follows a look like that.

 

“Just because we haven’t talked about fucking doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.” 

 

Jesus. Marty’s whole body jerks, half like a bee-sting, half like he’s just had his balls squeezed. Figures words would decide to up and escape him at this moment, leaving him grasping clumsily at his beer can and stuttering over his own tongue. “What the _ hell _ , Rust?” finally comes out, eliciting no more than a blink from the man. “What the fuck there’d be to talk about?” 

 

One of the only damn reasons Marty tangled with men at all was their understanding of a few tacit rules, the first being that it was just getting off, just physical release and nothing more. The second being that it was never to be spoken of. Hell, it was rarely even asked for directly, the less said the better. Primal signals worked best: sitting a little too close in the sauna at the rec center, having a few too many whiskeys at the bar together. Men were uncomplicated and predictable, and Marty should’ve just stuck to blowjobs on dusty Parish roads instead of chasing a piece of tail like Lisa. 

 

Figures Rust’d be like a woman, wanting to talk. 

 

Figures, since Marty still can’t decide how he feels about how damn willing Rust’d been, crouched on all fours with his legs spread, balls smooth and heavy, his asshole fucking  _ contracting  _ like a quivering cunt. The image has haunted him for the last forty-eight hours, making him flush equally with revulsion and desire. A man shouldn’t make noises like that, shouldn’t scream out when he comes, clawing at the sheets until they’re near-shredded. . 

 

Figures. Rust fucks like he smokes. Like he wants it to kill him. 

  
  


* * *

 

 

Rust doesn’t actually want to talk about the sex. Sex is sex, and despite having read Foucault’s numerous volumes on the subject, it doesn’t much interest him as a philosophical topic. 

 

He hadn’t meant for them to end up fucking. That was the result of a trifecta of circumstances both in and out of his control: snorting what he had left of the good coke from the evidence locker; taking up hard liquor again; and wallowing in the ghost of Crash, that twisted pretty boy who never saw an edge he didn’t want to run straight off. 

 

“You’re right.” He gives a small nod and drains the rest of his beer. ‘There’s nothing to talk about.” 

 

“Fuck you. Now you don’t wanna talk?” 

 

Inadvertent reverse psychology. Marty should be simple, but every now and again, he wasn’t. Once or twice, he even caught Rust off guard. It was that streak of impulsivity, like some part of Marty was still two-years old and prone to fist-pounding tantrums. 

 

“Look, you know there are rules, don’t you? When it comes to messing around with another man?” 

 

“Sex, Marty. Call it what it is, fucking.” 

 

“Come on now. Don’t talk about it. Don’t make it _ weird _ .” Marty’s lip twists enough to suggest there’s more where that came from.

 

“Weird, was it?” 

 

“You didn’t have to be so--”  _ Slutty _ is the word he’s probably looking for, but Rust knows that it’s one Marty would feel wrong using to describe a man. “--eager.”

 

“I see. You’d be more comfortable if I was reluctant. Unwilling, even?” He tips up his chin and watches Marty’s face go livid. 

 

“Hell, no. I’m not into that shit.” The words are spat out with conviction, but Marty’s convictions come from an unexamined place, erected by institutions that benefit from blind faith. Marty believes, but he doesn’t know why he believes in what he believes in. 

 

“See, that’s what I mean about shame. In a way, we crave it. In this watered down Puritan society where so many sexual acts are taboo, it only follows that sex and shame would be passionate bed partners.”

 

“That’s a fucked up thing to say, even for you.” A snort, then, to lighten the mood. 

 

“What would happen if you acted without shame, Marty? You ever wonder? Ever dared?”

 

Marty won’t look at him, busting his palms out wide to ward off the questions. “I’m not into shame, okay? If anything, I do what I can to avoid it.” 

 

Rust contemplates what it must be like to view one’s self as such an uncomplicated collection of vices and virtues. As if those things never bleed together in an unsettling, potentially intoxicating miasma. “My actions the other night seems to have caused you some.” 

 

“Some  _ what _ ?” Marty is indignant before he even knows what he’s been accused of, though Rust’s intent isn’t to be accusatory. He suspects that Marty’s just so used to riding the smooth wave of predictable, folksy chit-chat that anything beyond that feels like an afront. 

 

“Shame.” 

 

Ah, but there’s that flicker of uncertainty on Marty’s face, the wince following a dig that’s squarely hit its target.

 

“You see, shame is one of those things that actually gets worse, the more you try to hide from it.” Rust blows smoke toward the ceiling, watching how the curls barely catch the light. “Look at it directly, speak to it -- well, it loses some of its potency.”

 

“Yeah? And since when have you ever been ashamed of anything? You say whatever’s on your damn mind, near as I can tell.” 

 

Rust doesn’t think of himself as a talker, but Marty hears what he wants to hear. There’s a softness to his voice now, though. An opening. 

 

“That’s because I’m looking that shame in the eye. Or trying to.” Sometimes, he fails. 

 

Marty’s only retort is to stretch his legs out in front of him, hooking his thumb into his belt as he tilts back in his chair, projecting a receptivity that Rust finds himself more than a little grateful for. 

 

The dark and smoke of the room, the scent of their own respective bodies, it’s a particular kind of unsettling and intoxicating miasma.

 

“You never asked what happened to Ginger.”

 

That gets a blink. “Yeah, I did. You said you left him in a ditch.” 

 

Rust lets out a noncommittal murmur with his exhale of smoke. 

 

“Hey, look, you two clearly had a history, so if that ditch was filled with ten feet of water that’s fine by me, I just don’t need to know.” 

 

“In a gang like the Iron Crusaders, you need men like Ginger. They’re not the brains of the group, but they’re the guts.” Rust isn’t surprised to hear a tinge of praise in his own voice; much as he loathes the man, Ginger was good at being the person he was. 

 

Rust feels distinctly divorced from the person he was, and the person he is. The person he will become. He feels it out there, sometimes, breathing down his neck like a phantom, a fly crawling along his spine. It’s already here.  _ He _ is already here.

 

Marty’s lawn chair squeaks, and Rust comes back to himself, taking a disinterested sip of his warming beer. “Someone like Ginger can bring in trouble, but they can sniff out opportunity, too. Crash was like Ginger, but lower on the pole. You know what a man like Ginger does to a man like Crash?” 

 

“Keeps Crash in his place?” Marty swallows, the skin between his eyebrows bunching together with worry. “Make sure he doesn’t rise up and snatch a higher spot in the pecking order.” 

 

“Yeah, that’s about the sum of it. More than half of the Crusaders have been in prison. They use the same tactics on the outside as they do in the inside.”

 

Marty’s eyebrows have surpassed worry and gone into distress. “You were --”

 

“Yeah. His bitch, as the vernacular goes.” His cigarette is almost gone, so he reaches for another, rolling the smooth paper between his fingertips. “Not the way he wanted me to be, though.”

 

“How so?”

 

Rust has not, in fact, talked about this outloud with anyone before, and it takes a couple swallows to get going. “It was about power. About the infliction of shame.” No, he’s only looked at this before in his mirror, the single eye gazing inward. “But I denied him that shame.”

 

Marty is silent. Too afraid to ask, maybe.

 

“Rather than resist, I welcomed him. Asked for it.” He snaps his lighter, the flare of light illuminating Marty’s stricken expression. “Didn’t stop him, but it usually left him in a state of frustration. Made him feel his own shame.” He almost grins, wincing at the unfamiliar sensation of flesh stretching over his bones. “After all, if I liked it so much, maybe he did, too.” 

 

“But you didn’t really like it, right? You were putting on an act?” 

 

“Ginger’s just smart enough to know when you’re trying to make him look stupid, so no, it wasn’t an act. It was a choice. When he yanked at my belt I licked my lips and let my eyes run him up and down. An ugly man, but there’s a certain appeal in that. Or there was for me at that time.” Rust lets out a noise that might be a laugh. “He’d get a whiff of panic in his eyes when I gave him the eye. Because what did it say about him if another man found him attractive? If another man was already going hard in his jeans before things got going?”

 

“So you got a thrill out of making him panic.” Marty voice is gruff, his thumb hooking deeper around his belt. “That’s understandable.” 

 

“That, and the fucking wasn’t half bad.” 

 

Marty coughs around his last swallow of beer. 

 

“You alright?” 

 

“Yeah, just --” Still red-faced, he sits up straighter, trying to compose himself. “It’s just hard to imagine you being anyone’s bitch.”

 

Rust stares at him for a long minute, wondering how he could have so quickly forgotten the manner in which Rust arched his back and flexed his thighs, all to gobble up more of Marty’s well-hung but somehow absurdly clean-cut (literally and figuratively) cock. 

 

“Imagination both limits us and tempts us. You’re imagining it now, aren’t you? Even though you just said you couldn’t.” 

 

Marty taps his fingers against the beer can and makes a face that’s only a little sour. “I guess.”

 

“He liked to start with a hard grab to the crotch.” Rust squeezes his beer can to demonstrate. “Fingertips digging into that spot right between the base of the cock and the balls, hard enough to hurt.” Rust came to like how it hurt. “Then he’d start the rough stroking, his sour breath laughing into my sinuses.” He can still smell it -- tooth decay and cheap whiskey. “He liked to fuck standing up, thrusting so hard my forehead would knock into the wall. Learnt that in prison, I suppose, tight quarters and all.” 

 

“ _ Jesus _ …” Marty fills whatever he can’t bring himself to say with another swallow of beer. 

 

_ Leave him out of it _ , Rust wants to say, but he just places his crushed beer can on top of a file box, then leans into the space between them, a static but charged pause.

 

“Go on and tell me, Marty. You hard?” 

 

There’s a tight whistle -- Marty breathing in sharply through his nose. “Yeah. Is that what you want to hear?” 

 

“Just want to hear the truth.” He stubs out his cigarette, the lawn chair creaking as he rises to his feet. He doesn’t have to look down to know that his own erection is obvious. It’s been straining into the fabric of his pants for a while now, a dime-sized spot dampening the fabric. “Show me.” 

 

“What is this, a dick-measuring contest?” Marty scoffs, reaching for another beer.

 

Lunging forward, Rust grabs him by the belt and hauls him to his feet, the beer can dropping from his fingers and rolling across the carpet. Marty stumbles a little and Rust catches him by the shoulder, nearly gentle. “It’s not a contest and it’s not a joke. Show me, Marty. Show me your dick.” 

 

“Rust…” Marty whines, his face pinching together. 

 

“You’re always bragging about it, aren’t you? Now show me.” 

 

In a beat, Marty goes red-faced and defiant. “Fine, you sonofabitch.  _ Fine _ .”

 

Rust smiles. Almost.  

  
  


* * *

 

 

The sound of his zipper is loud -- goddamn _ obscene --  _ but that doesn’t stop his fingers from hauling it all the way down and reaching into his boxers for his stiff cock, slipping it out between the bunches of fabric as if it really is a dick-measuring contest. Rust keeps staring straight ahead at his face, his jaw set in a way that makes Marty sorely wish he’d gone to bed after that third beer. 

 

Yet he’s glad he didn’t. The ripples of anticipation running over his skin, filling his very lungs, are both tremendous and terrible. 

 

“What are you gonna do, Marty?” Rust’s eyes are flat and dark, tugging at the edges of Marty’s skin. 

 

“ _ Me _ ?” Marty spits out, annoyed. “I thought you were taking charge here.” 

 

“I did that last time.”

 

“And how do you figure that?” 

 

Rust looks strange without a cigarette between his lips, more dangerous rather than less so. It’s a curiously sensuous image, springing saliva up beneath Marty’s tongue. 

 

“Getting on all fours and presenting you with my readied ass is about as take charge as it gets.”

 

Marty frowns in thought, a mash of contradictory ideas not quite connecting in his head. Rust lets out a little sigh but, thankfully, chooses to drop to his knees rather than speak, his head more or less at the level of Marty’s waist. “There’s a mouth in front of you. How about you fuck it?” 

 

It feels like his own breath might suffocate him, and there are halos around the few lights in the room, obscuring his vision. Marty licks his lips, pushing his jeans and boxers down his hips with unsteady hands until his penis bobs out mere inches from Rust’s nose. This whole thing is something he shouldn’t look at -- shouldn’t but  _ must _ . The air in his chest goes ragged. 

 

“Don’t close your eyes and wait for me.” Rust’s voice is gravel over molasses, lower and smoother than usual. The voice he uses in interrogation, sometimes, arrogance and calm in a single utterance. “You’re in the driver’s seat.” 

 

Damned if there wasn’t a challenge that Marty Hart wouldn’t rise up and meet. He grips his shaft and, at the same time, the back of Rust’s skull, fingers curling through his faintly wavy hair. “Shut your damn mouth.” He pushes his hips forward and jabs the head of his cock against the curve of Rust’s lips, tracing the outline of his mouth and smearing a thin trail of precum against his skin. There’s just enough light for him to see it, leaving him jaw-slung and faintly mesmerized. 

 

Then Rust’s tongue darts out, a hungry flick swiping up that bead of moisture, and a jolt shakes Marty from his pelvis to his toes. He shouldn’t look --  _ must _ . 

 

He steadies himself quickly, clamping down harder on Rust’s hair, as if blaming him for how ungodly good all of this is. “Open up.” He whacks his cock-head against that mouth a few more times. It would seem funny if it weren’t so serious. Never in a million years did he dream he’d be in this situation. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel real, thick and hazy like a fantasy straight from the animal part of his brain -- whatever that part is called. Rust would know. 

 

When Rust’s mouth is open and waiting, Marty circles the head around his lips again, then along the inner-rim of his mouth, shivering at the feel of teeth against skin. He slips his cock into the slick passage and Rust’s cheekbones go even sharper as he sucks in, slight pressure tugging at the underside of Marty’s cock and bringing with it a wave of pleasure. His tongue lathes Marty’s thickness a few times, but then his ministrations retreat to something minimal, his jaw soon slung open strangely, as if in a yawn. Half in frustration, Marty pumps his hips, trying to use his dick to nudge Rust into action, his hands in a vice-grip at the back of Rust’s skull. 

 

And then he gasps, freezing to the spot when he’s struck by a never-before-felt sensation -- the head of his cock hitting the back of Rust’s mouth and somehow going  _ past _ it, right into the tight tube of his throat. 

 

He tries it again, just to see if he imagined it. He shouldn’t, but. He does it again, a fuzzy noise filling his ears as he loses track of his own churning hips, everything fading except the pressure at the end of his cock. It feels like a massive hole in the floor or ceiling might open up around him, but still he drives himself toward the ungodly pleasure.

 

Then he looks down to see all of himself disappear into Rust’s mouth like some kind of optical illusion, and a rude, slurking sound wipes out the fuzz in his ears. Saliva coats Rust’s lips and chin and his red-rimmed eyes are streaming tears, his face so terrifyingly human that Marty jerks himself all the way out with a groan. He’d been close, so close. 

 

Rust makes a rasping noise and wipes his mouth off with the back of his fist, but otherwise says nothing.

 

“How’d you do that?” Marty curls his hand around his penis almost protectively. “Didn’t it hurt?” 

 

“Practice.” Rust coughs once, dragging himself over to the mattress. “Doesn’t hurt, but throat will be raw tomorrow.” He doesn’t bother to wipe his eyes, and Marty understands that it wasn’t actual crying, just a physiological response to the endured invasion. 

 

_ Deep throat _ . Before now, Marty didn’t know it was a real, literal thing. 

 

“Come here.” Rust pats the mattress almost wearily, but from the way he smoothly rucks off his undershirt one-handed, Marty senses a shift in the air. All too often, Rust is only half-present, his strange mind clearly winding through that dark, metaphysical labyrinth that doesn’t interest Marty in the least. He only feels wholly present when he’s in the interrogation room, or maybe crouched over that taxman book of his. 

 

But the whole of Rust is here, now, and he takes up an awful lot of space.

  
  


* * *

 

 

“On your back.” 

 

Marty obliges like he’s used to this, and Rust imagines that he behaves the same way with his various side-pieces. Passive to the point of no-accountability. Probably enjoys being tied-up or handcuffed.

 

Rust has no plans to do either. Won’t need to. 

 

He strips Marty’s shirt off, vaguely annoyed that he was actually  _ still wearing it _ , and regards his body with a detached eye. The muscle of college athleticism is still there, softened out by a few too many beers, his skin a pinkish pale that Rust might call pretty, under the right circumstances. His cock is rosy-tipped, slapped thick against the ridge of his hip-bone, and his mouth settles into a slight line of concern as Rust removes his own trousers, quick and business-like. 

 

Before Marty can say whatever’s on that self-sabotaging mind of his, Rust roughly cranks his legs open at the knee and positions himself between them, hands curling around either thigh. 

 

“Now, I don’t know --”

 

“You ever had multiple orgasms?” Rust wishes he had a cigarette. 

 

“What?” 

 

“Multiple orgasms. Come more than once in, say, under thirty minutes.” 

 

Marty laughs, his knees knocking against Rust’s ribs. “Maybe when I was thirteen.” 

 

“Not that shit. That’s just ejaculating. I’m talking about orgasm.” Rust palms his cock and gives it a few, slow strokes, pushing the foreskin back and rubbing his thumb against the head. “I came four times when you fucked me.” 

 

“The hell you say.” Marty’s eyes nearly bug out of his face. “I was there, in case you forgot.”

 

“You don’t need to ejaculate to come.” Rust frowns, but isn’t surprised that Marty has never investigated the full potential of his own body. When it comes to self-exploration, Marty is one shitty detective. 

 

But he looks curious despite himself, his cock going more rigid. 

 

“Don’t move.” Rust leans over far enough to root through one of his various file boxes until he finds what he’s looking for -- a bottle of lube he picked up at a Houston sex shop before heading out to Louisiana. He squirts a good amount onto his palm and fingers and Marty, to his credit, stays shut up for once, though his brow furrows when Rust turns back toward him, hand outstretched. 

 

With sticky fingers, Rust lightly prods Marty’s balls, fighting back a grim smile when the other man’s hips twitch in response. There’s power in this, in delivering pleasure to another body, but there’s power in laying back and taking it, too. If there’s any way for Marty to understand  _ multiplicity _ , it has to be this. Rust traces the pucker of Marty’s asshole and watches those hidden muscles come to life beneath his navel, tensing up almost as much as his face.

 

“Easy.” His middle finger slides in smooth. The lube is quality shit. With little trouble, he brings the index finger in to join the other, pushing them higher and in a cork-screw motion that makes Marty gasp.

 

“I don’t know, Rust.” His face is red as he looks down at what’s happening between his legs. “Feels...weird.” 

 

Rust pulses his fingers open and shut, open and shut, and Marty melts into the pillow despite himself, groaning softly. 

 

“Relax, I know what I’m doing.” Rust’s fingers are long, the nails kept conveniently short. He presses his fingers against the roughly textured node of flesh that he’s fairly sure Marty’s never  _ really _ explored before, massaging with the gentlest pressure he can manage. 

 

“Ahh-ah!” Marty’s torso bucks in shock, his arms flailing against the sheets, and his right hand darts down toward his cock, the expression on his face telegraphing just how close he is. 

 

Rust slaps his hand away. “I’ve barely got going.” He thrust his fingers in and out in long, even strokes, taking detached satisfaction in how overwhelmed Marty looks, his eyes blinking and his mouth gawped open. “Don’t touch your cock, okay? Believe it or not, you’ll thank me for it later.” Marty nods slightly, no choice but to believe.

 

Rust fingers Marty’s ass for near twenty minutes, varying his rhythm and roughness, knowing just when to apply pressure and when to take it away. He doesn’t want a cigarette anymore. Marty’s arms are splayed wide and he’s shouting  _ Oh fuck! Fuck me!  _ without regard for propriety. Without shame. When he comes his entire body clenches around Rust’s fingers, then relaxes into jelly, a pool of ejaculate spilling over his left hipbone and into the sheets.

 

“Shit.” Marty’s head lolls from side to side. “ _ Shit _ .” 

 

Rust keeps his fingers inside but only moves them slightly. Just enough to keep Marty warm and wanting. His own balls are aching, aching, the tip of his cock oozing with precum. 

 

“We’re not done yet.” With his free hand, he reaches for the lube. 

 

“You sure?” Marty’s come back to himself, his expression vaguely stricken. 

 

“Yes.” With care but absurd ease, he pushes his cock into Marty’s ass and buries himself inside. “Very fucking sure.” 

 

Marty’s face runs through a staggering number of expressions -- ranging from horror to a nervous, cautious grin -- before he melts back into the pillow again, Rust’s rocking hips having coaxed him into acceptance. Rust nearly envies him. Experiencing the wonder of dominance is something almost every man knows, by virtue of his very position in the patriarchy, but experiencing the wonder of submission? Of just fucking  _ letting go _ ? A lot of men never get there. Men like Marty, especially. 

 

Men like Rust, actually. But he did and he never forgot the moment that he embraced it.

 

“You’re okay,” Rust whispers. He’s not sure to who. Marty’s hips rock eagerly to meet his stroke, though, and that seems good. 

 

Marty comes two more times, nearly whimpering on the second, breathing in quiet wonder by the third. Rust comes in those last few trembles, hunched over Marty’s body so close they could kiss. Though they don’t. 

 

Rust has always thought Marty is a funny-looking man. The strangely squished face, the careless, gap-toothed grin. A face that would be doomed in a sketch-artist’s hand. It’s a vividly human face, and Rust loathes all humans, himself included. But it’s hard to loathe something from this close and so Rust turns his head away, pulls out of Marty with a wet, tired sound. 

 

The silence that follows is dark and heavy. Marty finally shifts and Rust’s whole body tenses, waiting for Marty to say something stupid and foolish. 

 

“Well -- that was really something, Rust.” 

 

He sounds so genuine that Rust feels the ghost of something he hasn’t felt in a good long while. Call it shame. 

 

After a few seconds, Rust reaches for his cigarettes and sits upright, tossing one of them to Marty. He catches it with the snatch of a former short-stop. 

 

“The amygdala!” he says, looking triumphant for no good reason Rust can see. 

 

“What about it?” 

 

Marty taps the cigarette against his chin and smiles in a fashion that Rust finds thoroughly unreadable. 

 

And really, isn’t that something. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hey, leave a comment! :D


End file.
